The nurse barely had time to react before I pushed through the door. She looked stunned, like she hadn’t expected any of this either.
Inside, the air felt too still, too thick. The lights buzzed faintly. June was in the bed, pale, slick with sweat, and trembling. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, like she’d just seen something she couldn’t process.
A nurse stood beside her, holding the newborn. The umbilical cord was still attached. Another nurse hovered close, speaking softly, like they were both trying to keep something from falling apart.
“Ma’am,” one of them said, “this is your baby… She’s still attached to you.”
June shook her head firmly. Tears streamed down her face, hot and heavy.
“No,” she cried, her voice catching. “You don’t understand! Tony! That’s not — that’s not mine!”
No one moved. Even the machines seemed to go quiet.
I rushed to her side and took her hand. It was cold and clammy.
“June,” I said, crouching beside her, trying to meet her eyes. “I’m here. Talk to me, my love. What’s going on?”
But she didn’t look at me. Her gaze was locked on the baby. She looked terrified, like she was staring at a stranger she wasn’t expecting, like something had gone terribly, impossibly wrong.
